35. Saoirse
Saoirse
Unbelievable, But True
All I hear is that he loves me. Never stopped loving me. It was… heartfelt.
And it touched me deeply.
In a daze, I let him strip the clothes off my body, which he does with brisk, almost clinical, efficiency.
Everything he does reassures me. And yet it thrills me at the same time.
I can’t forget that this is Finn O’Shea in front of me. The man that every woman wants but not one of them can have.
Because he’s obsessed with me.
That’s hot.
I can’t deny it. Which means I can’t deny him when he steps into the shower with me.
I stand there with the water beating down on our heads and it feels… baptismal. If a woman ever needed a fresh start, it’s me.
He lathers a sea sponge with one of those pine-scented sports shower gels for men and starts rubbing it on my back.
If this is the lead up to his seduction, I’m falling for it. Big time. How could I not?
It feels… exquisite. Hot water, rough sponge, and then he presses firm kisses on my wet neck, on my shoulders, down my back...
I’m only human, so I reach behind me, my hands searching for his cock.
No one’s ever told me, but I know to keep the shower gel away. If soap burns me, it’ll burn him too.
Besides, lubrication will be the least of our worries. I’m ready for him. My arousal throbs and glows wherever he touches.
We stand locked together. I’m stroking him. He wraps his arm around me with his fingers slotted between my thighs.
It comes as no surprise when my excitement pools heavily in my clit. Feels like my core is melting as he caresses my pussy in all the right spots.
That I don’t have to look at him reassures me. Facing the glass wall, all I see is his dark reflection pressing against me.
Let me stroke your cock. Carry on fingering my slit. But no eye contact, because that might break the spell I’m under.
If he looks at me now, I’ll probably throw caution to the wind and say “I love you” back.
Using the wall for stability, I brace against it. “Uh.” He enters me from behind, his strong hands holding my waist as he guides himself into me.
Our connection is real. The chain we form has only two links, but it’s complete.
He sees me moving to touch myself, and pulls my hand away. Finn knows what to do and how I like it.
Oh, God, why does he have to be so good at this?
I brace and push back against him. It’s some kind of medieval torture to have a man penetrate me so deep, but I want it all. More.
The pleasure starts at the base of my spine and begins working its way inside.
I open my mouth to moan—and choke on water.
The spasms from my coughing trigger Finn as my sheath contracts and releases. He starts to come.
I sandwich his hand between my thighs by gripping tight and let our orgasms wash over us.
He holds me up as my legs give out. I retch slightly—my emotions and the gut-wrenching strength of our climax is all mixed up with the water I inhaled and the urge to cough.
It’s fun. Crazy. I’m very aware that I don’t have to hide how it affected me.
I don’t have to be on my best behavior here.
“I have to be the first woman to nearly drown fucking in the shower.” I’m giggling, my embarrassment amounts to nothing compared to what I just experienced.
Finn steps out of the shower, grabs me a towel. He’s smiling. That’s some kind of miracle in itself.
I maintain eye contact, still kind of shy about letting my eyes drop. I’m not a prude, it’s just difficult to be naked and act natural with him.
“Mermaid.” He passes me another towel for my hair.
They’re clean towels, thank God. His apartment is a dumpster fire.
“Really? I thought mermaids could breathe under water?” I’m teasing, flying high with endorphins.
Tucking the towel around his waist, he air dries the rest of his body. “Your hair—makes you look like a mermaid.”
I suppose so. “Say bye-bye to the hair for now. I’m going to need a dryer before you see it again.”
Flicking my hair forward I bend at the waist and wrap the extra towel around my head.
Finn confesses. “Don’t have a dryer.” He runs his hand over the top of his head and makes the dark, one-inch brushcut stand up.
Of course he doesn’t have a bleeding hair dryer. “Time for me to get the grand tour of this place.” So that I know what to put on my list of things for him to buy.
I’m going to get out of here. But there’s no need for me to live like a desert island castaway until I do.
Finn turns his head to look at the cut on his cheekbone in the cabinet mirror. That was a lucky shot I got him with.
He catches me looking at him. The triumph and satisfaction must be easy to see on my face.
He shakes his head, amused. “You’re the real estate expert, Saoirse. Give yourself the tour.”
I’m beginning to understand why I find the apartment dimensions intimidating, and ever-so slightly unreal.
Seeing how Finn moves around the space comfortably, I realize he’s had all the doors, ceilings, steps, and surfaces made slightly bigger to accommodate him.
A customized home, made to measure. He doesn’t have to turn sideways to access the walk-in closet or hunch his shoulders when opening one of the kitchen cabinets.
His environment has been adapted to fit him. No one else. He meant to live alone when this was constructed.
That makes me feel like an intruder, not a captive. I eye him with speculation while he sprays cheap antiperspirant under his arms.
Whatever environment he ran away to after leaving me must have been a hostile one. His body is rock-hard, hewn out of pain and combat.
On his right shoulder—where his good angel might sit if he had one—is one word surrounded by roses and thorns. Freedom.
My name means freedom. The symbolism isn’t lost on me. But I’m not about to ask him if he’s inked me on his skin.
Ink is personal. Private. Out in the open, but with the meaning hidden.
A bit like Finn and me, really.
Looking around his apartment is depressing. This place could be beautiful if he got a decorator in.
No windows, but the HVAC functions like one.
A steep staircase stretches all the way to a door with a landing. Steel. Probably alarmed with lasers.
The bottom of the stairs open up to the living space. I’m getting serious frat house energy. There’s a bean bag in front of a huge flat screen with a gaming console.
I don’t even have a game app on my phone.
Overlooking the bean bag is the extra king-size bed on a raised dais… I’m sorry, but… What kind of adult has a gaming console and bean bag as furniture?
Along the wall on one side is a bunch of workout equipment.
A mirror fills the other wall.
Punch bags and metal bars hang from the ceiling.
Next to the shower room is a restroom and spacious walk-in closet.
That looks promising, but when I look inside all I can see is piles of dirty laundry and scrunched up clothes dumped on shelves. Finn pushes past me and dumps a fresh pile of sheets on the floor.
My heart melts. He changed out the sheets on the bed. That has to be some kind of a miracle.
I check out the kitchen next. Just as I thought. The countertop is a couple inches taller. So are the four bar stools pushed under the island seating ledge.
None of this is cheap, but boy, is it tacky. The furnishings are a mismatch of remnants and factory rejects.
He’s done a quick shop with me in mind—or ordered one of his soldiers to do it. Barry’s tea, cookies, blaas in the bread bin, some cans of Campbell’s soup in the cabinet.
When I open the fridge, I see the week’s meals are vacuum-packed and labelled.
Monday. Breakfast: Oats with almond milk. Snack: Greek yogurt with one tablespoon whey powder. Lunch: One pound boiled yams and half a pound grilled salmon. Snack: Fifty raw peanuts or twenty raw almonds. Dinner: Six chicken breasts, boiled; quarter pound quinoa, boiled.
He sees me gawking at his Spartan diet. “I got microwave meals for you.”
I open the freezer. Name brand Macaroni cheese and lasagna. Hot Pockets.
I think the contents might have freezer burn, because this unit hasn’t been cleaned out for a good while. I check the Use-By/Sell-By date. They were bought three months ago.
For how long has he been planning to make me his semi-permanent houseguest?
My bare feet pad as I return to the closet. Finn’s tee-shirt fits me like a dress. We’re going to have to do something about clothes for me, although I get the feeling he prefers me to be partially naked.
My impression? A significant percentage of Finn O’Shea runs wild like a child. No one has recently dared tell him to clean up or tidy his room.
And boy, does it show. But I’m not that surprised. He kept our apartment above the bakery in the same condition.
Hopefully, I’m not going to be here long enough for this mayhem to affect me.
I feel his eyes watch me as I move from station to station.
He’s sensitive to my moods. I forgot how he could do that—read my expression and troubleshoot the underlying cause before I even got the courage to share it with him.
Finn shows his emotional acumen now by sitting on the edge of the bed, and not that awful bean bag.
His legs are slightly splayed. Propped up by his large hands, he leans back. Total manspread.
He’s watching me, probably calculating my acceptance of the new circumstances. As if.
“How does freedom feel?”
Did I just hear him say I’m free? “You’re kidding, right? I’m not allowed to leave?”
Finn pats the space next to him, but accepts when I don’t go there. “Are you free where you lived this morning?” His smirk is controlled, like he’s daring me to lie.
It won’t hurt to sit on the bed. It’s got clean sheets. I perch on the edge next to him, and try not to feel pleased when he reaches for my hand.
“For better or worse, Finn, Sunnyside is my home.” It’s time for me to test the boundaries of this prison. “At least I’m surrounded by beautiful things there.”
He goes still. I think he might have stopped breathing. Like an injured animal who wants to play dead.
His grin is terrifying.
His movements are automated. He goes to the closet and disappears inside it.
I imagine him coming out with a gun, but he comes out without the towel, wearing loose-fitting cotton pajama pants.
Staying well away from me, he stalks from one side of the training area to the other, never taking his eyes off me.
He’s panting, prowling—I think he’s seriously pissed.
“I don’t know anything about beauty, Saoirse… I only know you…”
He thinks I’m beautiful. How could any woman say no to that? It takes supreme willpower to rise above the surging emotion his words inspire in me.
I need to focus.
“You killed my project managers, Finn! Two men—with families and kids—gone like they never even existed. And you know who’s on the line for that—?”
He cuts me off. “That wasn’t me. I would never fight dirty. I bet it was Maguire, trying to get rid of you without pissing off Patrick.”
Seriously? Would Declan do that? My husband didn’t seem that upset to learn that Maureen went through my stuff… two times!
When Finn says he’s innocent, it catches me off guard. “Pfft! I don’t believe you.”
He’s unshakable. “It’s how Maguire and Byrne tried to get rid of me. Framing someone is how they get them gone.”
I know my husband. “Declan would rather be dead than have a wife in jail. And if you didn’t kill my partners, then who did?”
He’s in earnest. “I swear on my mam’s grave. But… I think it might be a good thing they’re missing… because it gives me the chance to change your mind.”
He’s got my attention. “About what?”
“You’re pricing working folks out of existence. Maguire’s changed you. When I met you, Saoirse, you were all about that kindness and charity, you know? Now… not so much.”
“I give to charities!”
“Nah, girl, you don’t. You give to fat cats who run fake charities that launder Maguire’s money.”
How does he know all this stuff? It’s unbelievable, but what he says is true.
Finn gives me a comforting hug. “I’ll hold my whisht. But only because I don’t want to throw you off-kilter on your first night.”
Finn dozes off to sleep, but my eyes are wide open
Because if it wasn’t Finn who disappeared my fixers, then who did?